


Confessions of a Sinner

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Confessional Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: In a rare moment of honesty, it isn't the Light that answers Reynauld's obscene confession, but sin itself.
Relationships: Crusader/Highwayman (Darkest Dungeon), Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	Confessions of a Sinner

**Confessions of a Sinner**

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

The words came easily enough, familiar that they were. Reynauld had spent a lifetime uttering them, week after week and was no stranger to what came next. To baring himself open to the Light by means of confession. It wasn’t his favorite way of penance, but anything beyond the flagellant halls was a blessing that Reynauld embraced when the occasion called for it.

Now was one of those times, and he waited until he heard a response from beyond the screen separating the two small spaces. It came in the form of frantic rustling, a heavy silence, a cleared throat, and Reynauld wasn’t sure what to make of that. The priests were usually quick to accept him, even on days outside of the weekly scheduled confessions such as now, but he knelt in patient silence for the shifting to cease before he continued.

“It has been three days since my last confession and I accuse myself of the following sins.” Then took a deep breath to steady himself.

This wasn’t unusual. He had gone through these motions before, hundreds of times, and especially lately -- lately, when his mind was filled with vile sin and temptation. It’s not as though Reynauld had never been tempted by demons and devils and worse from the void, but none before had been named _‘Dismas’_. Despite the barbs and the debauchery and overall Lightlessness of the Highwayman, there was something especially pervasive by that cutthroat grin and those dark umber eyes when they were levied at Reynauld.

They spoke of everything that Reynauld couldn’t have, filled his senses with a dark whiskey, a heady smoke, the thrill of chance. All the things sworn and forbidden to Reynauld were made real in that carnal smirk and it irritated the Crusader to no end. Irritated to have him called from the Light, to have him steal glances and be haunted by thoughts that he immediately trampled down with a soft prayer or verse.

Sin was a product of man, and Reynauld was as much of a man as any, so afternoons in the confessionals weren’t unusual for him, no. Bent on his knees, prostrated to the Light, declaring the many things wrong with him, it was familiar to Reynauld. Soothing, even.

He had just never confessed _these_ particular sins yet.

The nerves built into jitters beneath his skin, and he cleared his throat, waiting for them to settle before he continued. The silence was overbearing, and he heard that strange rustling beyond the screen again, then a cough, and then eventually, “Sure, speak, my child,” and the gravelly voice was unfamiliar in this setting. Reynauld looked up, as if to peer through the opaque screen, but lowered his head once more -- there were many priests in the chantry now that they had cleared the path from the Old Road, and he needed to focus on restitution. Really, he just wanted to be cleansed of this so he could receive his penance.

“I confess to the sin of countless lewd thoughts these past months,” he admitted, guilt flowing through him to the screen to the Light. He waited for the priest to respond, to give some kind blessing or some harsh scripture, anything to absolve him and lighten him.

But the silence stretched on until it was an uncomfortable thing, heavy and blanketing, before eventually the priest spoke slowly, “ _Oh_? Such as?”

That gave Reynauld pause. He wasn’t sure how to answer that; in all of his years serving the Eternal Flame, none before had asked him to elaborate on his impropriety and impulses, his licentiousness that rotted him to the core lately. He stuttered at the question and at the many responses he could give, wondering just what kind of details the Father was looking for.

“Such as,” he swallowed, grit his teeth, and continued. “Physical intimacy with others. With,” another swallow, another pause. “Men.”

“ _Heh. I knew it_ ,” came a muttered sound and Reynauld furrowed his brows. “What else?”

It was out, then. Out in the open, secrets made real and put to words to face the Light and its holy judgement like he had been so afraid of doing for weeks. Suddenly, he felt the overwhelming desire to prolong it, to stretch the holy limbo between sin and penance and to revel in that weightless freedom before the Light could condemn him. 

“I confess to the sin of indulgence,” he spoke to the floor, to the holy Father and more, feeling nearly breathless in his heady freedom. Reynauld was mindless in his proclamation, welcoming of the incessant penance it would bring him; _anything_ to finally feel unearthly release. “I confess to self-pleasure on numerous occasions, and I confess to keeping my sin a secret from the Light when I’ve come to repent in the past. I confess to fantasies of fornication with another man, to filthy thoughts and desire, more nights than I can remember.” And if the Light looked upon him, flayed open to his own shame, it would know the sinful truth undeniable in the moment.

With a whisper, he clenched and unclenched his hands, squeezed his eyes shut, and ended his confession, “ _Even now_.”

The silence was deafening, somehow both loud and tangible, and stretched on until Reynauld hung his head. He shouldn’t have come here, _needed_ to come here, and was now lost to the very inclination he had meant to dispel. Eventually, the priest at the other side coughed, cleared his throat, and sounded strained when he finally answered him, not with a prayer or scolding, but with yet another question.

“Anyone in particular?” 

His voice sounded huskier, and if Reynauld wasn’t forgone to his guilt, he might have asked after the priest’s soundness of mind or asked why the Light cared to know. But he didn’t, reflexive and unhinged, and answered on instinct. 

“The Highwayman.”

Putting it to words, the Lightless lust he felt, it coursed a vibrant energy in him that spiked when the priest hitched a shuddering breath on the other side. He felt an irrational need to run, to be free of this small enclosed space that was normally a comfort and a blessing to him, but the instinct disappeared when the priest paused, seemed to read his thoughts, and spoke lowly through that screen. Through that dark filter of the Light that separated Reynauld from facing his shame, that kept him equally sane and gone from his earthly tethers, his consequences, it spoke, “ _Hold on_ .” It said, “ _Don’t move_.”

And Reynauld wasn’t sure what to make of the silence that ensued, that left him alone with his thoughts and his gnawing lust and crumbling resolve. He needed the scriptures, needed the holy Father to shame him with verses, to pity him with penance, and then he heard the door snap open on his side --

The panic that filled him in that instant was two-fold; panic at being exposed for the sins he bore and a moment later, panic at who exactly stood before him.

“ _Dismas_ ,” he choked out, rising to his feet.

The Highwayman was quick to shut the door behind him with a gentle _click_ that rang in the small, enclosed space drawing them in together. Door secured, Dismas turned to him then -- and suddenly Reynauld was face to face with the very thing that drove him here. The space between them was scant and their chests bumped and their breaths mixed, the air suddenly warmed with Dismas’ proximity and his cheeky grin that ran Reynauld’s pulse hotter.

Hands pressed to the walls of the old confessional, Reynauld knit his brows and whispered the only thing he could think to say. “ _What are you doing here?_ ”

It was harsh, demanding, _lessened_ by the nervous pitch in his voice that he tried to ignore. Dismas in such a tight space, bits of his body pressed to him with each shaky inhale, air alive and electric between them, it made Reynauld’s head swim. His brain was slow to catch up, so focused that it was on the knowing smirk Dismas pinned him to the wall with.

“Tardif caught wind of my bounty,” he shrugged, nonchalant, eyes alight and body relaxed as if he were anywhere else in the world, save for forcefully shoved into a confessional with Reynauld. “I figured this was the only place he wouldn’t find me.” And thrillingly, embarrassingly, Dismas ran his dark eyes up the length of Reynauld’s body, slow and thorough and deliberately lingering on his taut pants. It made Reynauld shiver involuntarily and he scowled down at the shorter Highwayman. “Imagine my surprise when I was found by someone else.”

“You _tricked_ me _,_ ” the Crusader grit out, face red with anger and embarrassment alike. “You actually let me _\--_ ” He stopped himself at that, because no way could he recount his sins again, not now, not face to face with the very spark to his match that burned him alive. 

Dismas tried to speak, but Reynauld wouldn’t let him. “Rey, I didn’t think -- ”

“ _Just,_ ” he started, stopped, breathed through his nose to control the wave of shame, the flutter of his heart, the dark temptations so close to his over-sensitive body. This was his punishment, surely, his immorality made real in the form of a warm body, a heady scent, a proximity that he was nearly drunk on. “Forget what you heard _. Please._ ”

He wasn’t ready to deal with this, not yet, but Dismas narrowed his eyes at that and shook his head defiantly. “No. I don’t want to.”

“ _Dismas_ ,” he groaned to himself, helplessly stuck between the thin wall of the confessional at his back and the Highwayman who seemed intent to stay, intent to keep Reynauld’s wits frayed, intent to block him from running away from this. From denying this ever happened. It was too cruel, and it was exactly what he deserved. 

“Did you mean it?”

The words were like a violent force in him, shocking and stilling, pulling him apart at the seams and Reynauld wanted to lie, wanted so very badly to shove the other man away and deny his confessions. He couldn’t speak, though, throat tight, and just minutely nodded his head.

It wasn’t good enough for the other man, close that he was, and Reynauld could sense every bit of tension coursing through Dismas as he said, “Then tell me you meant it.”

A long pause followed, filled with taut muscles, trembling legs, held breaths, and Reynauld was shamed by his own admissions of filthy guilt. Shamed that the very man he released himself to in the privacy of his own room every few nights, pleasure in his hand and tears in his eyes, stood before him, demanding the truth. The truth that Reynauld didn’t want to give him, couldn’t help but give him, and whispered, “ _I meant it._ ”

If they hadn’t been inches apart, Reynauld was sure that Dismas’ wouldn’t have heard him. But they were, closed in the tight space of the confessional, truth rendering Reynauld open and hopeful and ashamed, and Dismas was close enough that he might have been able to _taste_ the holy man’s desperation that tinged his whispered words. 

“I hoped so.” His hand was reaching out to Reynauld then, a cocky half-smile at Dismas’ lips that fit him so perfectly, and Reynauld’s heart picked up at the idea of being touched. He recoiled, tucked himself against the wall of the confessional, sins hot at his lips and tight at his pants and he envied the other man for his self-assurance. What he wouldn’t give for the confidence to reach back, to know that he would forgive himself for wanting this so badly, that he could wake up fulfilled and satisfied with Dismas naked at his side. But he knew he would never be that at ease.

Reynauld furrowed his brow then, feeling none of the composure Dismas was exuding, and hiss backed, “ _No. Get OUT. You shouldn’t be in here_.”

The venom in his voice belied the pounding of his heart, the shake in his hands, the throbbing at his core as Dismas stepped up to him, closing the meager distance and pressing his body close. Reynauld was immediately enveloped in the smaller man, his warmth, his scent, and his mind blanked as he felt the Highwayman’s chapped lips at his neck, all cracked skin and hot breath at his pulse point that quickened from the man’s attention.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Dismas murmured against his skin, and Reynauld shivered in response. “I seem to recall that you _yourself_ had other ideas a minute ago,” and there was amusement in that voice, confident and irritating, but it gutted him. It was pointless to lie, pointless to deny everything Reynauld had just confessed in confidence, pointless to turn away the man that pressed to his hips and chuckled at the firmness there. Reynauld was speechless, more unsure of himself and his resolve than he had ever been in his life, the way Dismas wet his lips, the way he hovered there, the way he waited for the Crusader to respond. 

Ever practical, Reynauld’s mind raced with consequences, real and imaginary, immediate and prolonged, and looked to the door of the confessional that couldn’t even lock. “Someone could walk in.”

“I won’t let ‘em,” Dismas spoke, all confidence and bravado. He was temptation incarnate, and Reynauld’s body reacted in ways he couldn’t even will himself against now. 

After too long a pause, tense and trembling, Reynauld finally broke. “ _Please,_ ” it was a single, plantaive word that shamed him and honestly, he couldn’t say what exactly he begged for -- escape or oblivion. All Reynauld knew was that he needed that lithe body closer, needed that heat all around him, needed his mind clear and gone.

Dismas seemed to know exactly what he needed, somehow, and pressed that hot mouth and unfamiliar scruff to his neck the next moment. Surprised, Reynauld groaned out loud and felt a firm hand at his mouth, quieting him, keeping the sound trapped between them until it was replaced by heavy breaths. The smaller man licked and sucked there until Reynauld was a shivering mess, absent of thought and Light, puddy in his hands until eventually Dismas pulled away from his neck with a filthy sound and grinned up at him, hand still clamped down on Reynauld’s mouth. The cold air and goosebumps replaced that devil’s tongue immediately.

“Keep that up, and we just might get caught,” Dismas laughed into the small space between them, and Reynauld clenched his eyes shut sheepishly. 

After a heartbeat, that hand was gone and replaced by a warm mouth, shocking him. Teeth clacked together, rough and clumsy, but Dismas righted the angle a moment later and Reynauld was lost. He had imagined kissing the other man and more, too many times to count, soft and sweet and tender. This was anything but, and the heat and desperation sent Reynauld reeling, hands still pressed to the confessional walls helplessly, allowing Dismas all control over his mouth. A tongue licked at him and the needy groan that escaped Reynauld was blessedly stifled to their kiss.

Without his permission, Reynauld’s hands moved of their own accord, away from the walls that stabilized him to the smaller man’s waist and _Gods,_ it felt so good to touch and to _be_ touched. 

Dismas was relentless, his hands wandering until they slipped below the hem of Reynauld’s tunic, and the moment that skin touched skin, Reynauld broke the kiss to sigh brokenly, stutters of air disrupting his lungs and rushing out in huffs. His skin seemed to melt to sweat and shudders the more Dismas explored him, hands tracing the outlines of Reynauld’s stomach, hard and fed and built from a lifetime of enlisted violence. Those wide palms, those greedy finger tips, they built the pressure at Reynauld’s core, teasing the tightness in his pants and making the Crusader breathe out another moan.

He wasn’t sure what to do next. He wasn’t sure what this situation warranted, what Dismas wanted, what _he_ wanted, for Light’s sake. All he knew was that his mind and body _wanted,_ harsh and carnal, more so than they had in decades, all Reynauld knew was that he _wanted._ Wanted the body moving firmly against his, wanted _Dismas._

Reynauld wasn’t sure, and it must have been apparent because Dismas broke apart from the heady kiss and found his half-lidded gaze with his own. 

“Can you keep yourself quiet?” the Highwayman muttered, rough lips kissed swollen and wet and sinful. Reynauld tried to speak, tried to think, couldn’t, and just nodded jerkily. It was embarrassing, how autonomy left him alone in this, but he reveled in the heavenly gluttony of Dismas in his hands regardless.

Perceptive as always, Dismas just chuckled and shifted back, away from the hard line of Reynauld’s needy body, then fell to his knees. Reynauld’s mind was slowed at that, all mud and filth, and he didn’t comprehend the Highwayman’s intent until Dismas had his hands laced at Reynauld’s belt. Even still, his brain worked to untangle the equation of Dismas on his knees, grin wide before Reynauld’s thick outline, looking up at him with sin and promise in his carob-colored eyes. _God’s above,_ was the only thought that Reynauld held to like a lifeline as Dismas whipped his belt off and sent it clattering to the floor of the confessional.

Almost immediately, Dismas was lowering the Crusader’s pants and undershorts, cheeky grin fallen to wide-eyed hunger as Reynauld popped free.

The air was warm and welcoming around his heavy cock, swollen with a shameful need and want, and Reynauld had to prop himself up against the walls of the confessional to keep his hands to himself, anxious that they were. They wanted, aimless, and without the sanctity of a sturdy surface to fill them, Reynauld was worried what they might do otherwise.

Already, he was slick with his own sin, dripped from his tip wantonly and Reynauld gave another shaky sigh to the space between them. Those eyes, those dark, knowing, godless eyes stared up at him for just a moment, a tension tied between them like a readied whip, and if they were waiting for any kind of wordless permission from Reynauld, they found it. Dismas parted his lips the way he did when he ravaged Reynauld’s mouth moments ago, only this time -- this time, they spread to Reynauld’s throbbing prick.

A soft, broken noise left Reynauld’s mouth, quickly drowned by his fist that he shoved between his teeth. 

What were they doing? This was a sin, they were sure to be caught, and even still, if Reynauld made it out of this experience alive and with all his faculties, how would he look at himself? He didn’t care. The only thing he could bring himself to care about was the man at his knees, tan hands clenched at Reynauld’s pale thighs, pressing his open mouth further down the Crusader’s cock. It broached the hard crest of his tip and Reynauld was lost.

Dismas swallowed him, jaw stretching to accommodate Reynauld’s large size, tongue sliding a trail of spit-slicked wetness down the length for a smoother give. Reynauld’s breath hitched and he bit into his knuckle, hard, anything to suppress the pathetic sound caught in his chest at the sight, the _feel._

It was overwhelming, all-encompassing, mind blanking as Dismas slid down, further, inch by inch, _maddening_ . Reynauld watched every moment, suspended in the small space between them, lost and overcome by the feel of that hot pressure taking him in, tip to hilt, settled against Dismas’ throat. Just the thought of that drove him mad, just the mere _idea_ of someone swallowing him, of _Dismas_ specifically so perfectly fitted around Reynauld’s sizable shaft that he angled his throat to fit him. He stayed that way, acclimating to the Crusader’s heavy girth, and Reynauld bit his skin to white to pink to red at the feel of his cockhead pressed against the tense, tight confines of Dismas’ throat.

He wasn’t going to last, he knew.

In all honesty, he still couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t believe the way the Highwayman slid him back out, trailing a glistening layer of saliva that stuck to Reynauld’s cock as he slipped it free from his mouth with a grin. It was salacious, it was _filthy,_ it was so far begone from the Light that Reynauld -- 

Helpless, he moaned into his fist again as Dismas dipped his head and took his cockhead once more, throbbing, desperate. They stayed like that, Dismas licking him clean of all his sin as he bobbed at the tip, eyes lidded as if he enjoyed it. As if he relished the motion, the feel, the _taste_ of Reynauld at his lips. That velvety tongue lapped at his slit, at the thick need that beaded there, then circled the ridge that led down via the throbbing vein wanting that pressure, coaxing Dismas back down to his groin. 

Reynauld whimpered, tearing his fist from his teeth, and caught Dismas watching him from below. With a lewd _pop,_ Dismas released him once more and whispered, “You can touch me, if you want.”

It seemed both obvious and not, appropriate and not expected and so beyond taboo that his hands faltered for a moment, then reached down. Down, so far down to Dismas’ body still propped on his knees and tending to Reynauld’s desperation, one hand on his shoulder and the other tentatively brushing through his thick, unwashed hair. It felt intimate, more intimate than Reynauld had ever expected to be with anyone at this point in his life -- much less a _man_ , and much less _Dismas_ \-- and Reynauld felt the admiration leak from his cock. It didn’t go unnoticed. 

His fingertips traced the black hair cropped short and shaved at the sides, bristled beneath Reynauld's gentle touch. He savored it, feeling along Dismas' hair, his scalp, his neck, all feverish and sweaty, lost to his want as Reynauld let his wandering hands take over. They beckoned Dismas closer, pathetically, back into his lap and Dismas acquiesced, leaning forward to press his swollen lips to the Crusader's tip, sliding them open and down, giving back in to Reynauld's pulsing erection.

“ _By the Light, Dismas_ ,” Reynauld whispered, shivering.

Dismas fell into a rhythm then, stroking up and down Reynauld’s shaft with a tight grip of his mouth, a hard suck of his cheeks, sliding the head against the back of his throat over and over, bobbing in his lap. Reynauld wasn't sure how the Highwayman managed and clenched his hand gently, tenderly, in the longer raven strands weaved within Reynauld's fingers. Dismas squeezed his eyes shut and groaned at that and Reynauld felt the sound sear through him like a tidal wave, coursing through him and making his knees weak. He did it again, hesitant, afraid of going too far, afraid of doing anything that might stop the sultry pull at his apex, but Dismas seemed to enjoy the clench in his hair and moaned again. Reynauld's breath hitched and he rocked into it, involuntarily thrusting himself further into Dismas' waiting mouth, back and forth. 

The pressure was mounting, much needed release looming just at the precipice and Dismas held him there until he nearly _surrendered_ to it --

Sudden footsteps shocked them both apart abruptly and Dismas held a finger to his lips. They watched each other, tense, as the footsteps came closer, stopped, turned about the room with a noise that took a moment to register in Reynauld's sex-fogged brain -- someone was sweeping in the room just outside. The footsteps came close again, purposeful, and Reynauld’s heart caught in his throat; what was the punishment for fornication with another man in the public house of the holy Light? He'd surely be excommunicated, if not worse, and the gravity of his sins came crashing down around him. 

The confessional door clicked just as Dismas turned and pressed his foot to it, holding it shut to the intruder. The person huffed just beyond the door and knocked, then muttered aloud.

“What in the world?”

Junia _. Gods, no_.

“ Hello? Is someone in there?” She knocked again, three sharp raps against the wood. “If that’s the Caretaker again, I swear to the Eternal Flame…” 

Dismas raised his finger up to his lips once more, discouraging the Crusader from saying anything -- not that Reynauld trusted his voice right now -- and kept his foot still planted against the door firmly. Eventually Junia sighed an irritated sound, mumbled something about the door being stuck _again_ , and turned from the room with fading footsteps.

Reynauld let out the breath he was holding with a sharp hiss through his teeth, closed his eyes and shook his head. That had been close, too close, and sobered him enough to shy back from the Highwayman who noticed the shift in him immediately. All he wanted was to be out, was to have air in his lungs, was to be punished for his sins but then Dismas was standing, cursing as his knees popped, and faced him.

“ _Hey_ , she’s gone,” he whispered, clearly not as shaken as Reynauld was. “You can relax now.”

No. _No_ , Reynauld shook his head again, throat tight, lost for the words to end this, to pretend it didn’t happen. He had the overwhelming urge to rebuckle his pants, exposed that he was, and quickly yanked them back up for a modicum of modesty. Of pretend dignity. His hands shook and his heart was a bird in a cage, frantic and thrumming against his ribs; they had almost been caught, might _still_ be caught. Dismas frowned up at him, eyes surprisingly soft, then reached up and caught his mouth in another kiss, softer than before but just as wanting.

Through his fear and nerves, Reynauld registered an edge to the taste of Dismas, a salty tang almost, and his mind flooded when he realized what the taste was that coated the other man’s tongue. His hands settled at Dismas’ hips then, uncertain and hesitant, and let himself be kissed for a moment longer before he pulled away. 

“Dismas,” he breathed, the air between them mingled hot and heavy. Dismas hummed in response, and Reynauld built all the steel he could manage and said, “It is a sin.”

The lewd smile he received in return brought a tinge of that tightness in his pants back, and Reynauld swallowed thickly. Clearly there was some foul, perverse part of Reynauld that _enjoyed_ the idea of sinning in a confessional, that welcomed it, and it took every ounce of determination not to pull that sin out and let Dismas ravage it once more.

“Fine, let’s go sin elsewhere,” the Highwayman enticed. 

It seemed… obvious. So apparent as an option, but so beyond what Reynauld had ever imagined, to leave and resume this outside of their fervid moment. These scalding hot touches, these soft noises and building passion that held nothing of the sideways looks and sneered barbs they normally regarded each other with. It seemed too good, too wretched to be true. Nervous and impatient that he was, Reynauld still stooped down and pressed his lips to Dismas’, soft, gentle, foreign and careful not to ruin whatever strange moment was between them. Careful, and _desperate._

He wasn't sure where the Light might not look upon them for whatever carnal sin Dismas had in mind for the Crusader, but it certainly wasn't here. Reynauld kissed him for a moment longer, tender as he had always imagined, had secretly fantasized about, as if to reaffirm that this moment wouldn’t disappear as soon as they left this confessional. And regardless, if it did end -- which in all honesty, maybe it _should_ have -- Reynauld needed something fond, fulfilling.

Shortly after, they parted with quickened breaths and Reynauld finished re-buckling his pants for their escape from the abbey. As he did, he glanced up and thought he saw -- something _warm,_ something indulgent and affectionate in Dismas’ dark smokey eyes, nearly black as they met his own. 

It was gone as quick as he noticed it, though, a figment of his lust-filled mind and a second later, they were out the door. The thin door of the confession swung open and the two men stepped out, then simultaneously froze -- 

At the opposite side of the chamber, a broom clattered to the floor harshly. 


End file.
